


Won't You Let Your Colors Run

by Estelle (Fielding)



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, art class, smutty af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 04:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20500547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fielding/pseuds/Estelle
Summary: Amy signs up for her first painting class since college. She isn’t expecting it to be quite so...immersive. Art class AU! Borderline PWP (there's some plot if you squint).





	Won't You Let Your Colors Run

**Author's Note:**

> I had some time to kill this weekend and this fic just sort of ran away with me. It is seriously NSFW explicit (and has nothing to do with my newspaper AU). Thank you as ever to the fantastic @fezzle/@drowninginmyworries for the beta, and for giving me the title.

She’d thought it would be a nice way to get to know more about her new partner. She’d thought she could maybe tone some of those artistic muscles she hadn’t worked since she was an undergrad. She’d thought, at the very least, the class would be a good excuse to let loose a little and clear her head.

She had not thought there would be so much penis.

“Rosa!” Amy hissed, ducking behind her easel. Her face was on fire. “That man is naked!”

Rosa raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “The class is called Painting the Human Form.”

“I thought it would be mannequins!”

Terry shushed them and Amy’s faced burned so hot that she feared she might actually burst into flames. She looked surreptitiously around the studio – everywhere but the naked man in the center of the room – and surveyed her classmates. They were all at work, brushes already licking at paper, eyes flicking between the model and their easels. No one looked the slightest bit uncomfortable. Amy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She could do this. She would do this. She was brave and self-composed and not weirded out by strangers’ penises. She was a cop, damnit.

But first she needed to mix the perfect shade of gray.

“You know this class is for painting, right?”

Amy jumped and nearly dropped her brush at Terry’s voice over her shoulder.

“Yes, I just-”

“Paint, Santiago,” Terry said, making brush strokes with his hand. “Paint.”

Amy nodded and faced forward again. She swallowed hard. She squared her shoulders. She looked at the naked man.

+++

Rosa was Amy’s first partner and Amy was determined that they were going to be bonded for life.

Except Rosa was resistant. (Eventually, they would become the Sleuth Sisters. There would be a paperback book series for tween girls and a gritty but hilarious Netflix show based loosely on their partnership. But that was a ways off.) Amy had to wrestle for every twist of lips that hinted at a smile and the smallest sliver of personal information. So when Rosa let it slip that she was taking an art class, Amy basically followed her there and signed up on the spot.

Which was how she found herself totally unprepared when the man stepped into the studio wearing only a plaid flannel robe, crossed into the middle of their loose circle of easels, and stripped.

“This is Jake,” said Terry, the instructor.

A woman with red hair and a mean-looking grin wolf-whistled.

“What have I told you about harassing the models, Gina?” Terry said.

“Nah, it’s fine, Jake and I go way back,” the woman said.

Jake the model grinned and waved. Amy accidentally looked right at his penis and nearly fell over.

+++

When she finally got over herself and looked back at him, she started with his feet. Jake was standing, his posture relaxed, one foot slightly in front of the other. His feet ... looked like feet. Amy moved her gaze up his shins to his knees to his thighs, which were thick but firm, the quads well defined despite his loose stance. She skipped over the crotch and admired his softly rounded belly, and the contours of his pectoral muscles. He was mostly smooth-skinned, with just a dusting of hair on his chest and trailing down and down. His nipples were hard, though the room wasn’t particularly cold, even by Amy’s sensitive standards.

His left arm was at his side, his right hand casually wrapped around that forearm. His shoulders and biceps bulged just enough for a second-glance, in a non-threatening but appealing way.

When Jake had walked in the room, she’d noticed first the smile on his face, goofy but charming, the grin of someone who was anticipating the punchline of a joke or the payoff of a prank. His brown eyes were bright with barely contained laughter. Now, though, as he posed for the class, his face was stony, almost emotionless, the cheekbones sharp, the lips full and pouty, forehead smooth and eyebrows turned into the smallest of frowns.

But his eyes. They still sparkled.

Amy picked up her brush and painted.

+++

The class was twice a week. After three sessions Amy was mostly over the whole naked thing. Each time Jake would strike a new pose, and they would practice a different technique. Amy learned that Jake’s back was as well sculpted as his front, and that his butt was taut but plump.

For some reason, she loved painting his hair, swirling her brush into curls and twirls and tangles in delicious shades of brown. (But never the same brown as his eyes, which she couldn’t quite capture, yet.)

+++

The fourth week of class Amy was running earlier than usual, and she stopped at the coffee shop across the street from the studio. She stepped out just as someone else was stepping in and they collided head on and it was a miracle she didn’t dump her coffee all over both of them. Amy yelped anyway and looked up into eyes that she recognized immediately.

“You’re naked! I mean Jaked! I mean Jakenaked. Oh my god.”

Jake stared at her, face unreadable. Amy smacked her free hand over her eyes.

“You’re Amy, right?”

Amy nodded solemnly, face still covered.

“I don’t think we’ve officially met yet.”

Amy peeked through her fingers. He was smiling kindly at her.

“No, I guess we haven’t,” she said, lowering her hand.

“I’m Jakenaked. I’m a huge fan of your work.”

Amy felt the blood rush to her face, but she couldn’t help smiling back at him. “It’s nice to meet you. You’re a real jerk.”

He laughed, and she loved the sound of it. She waited for him to get a coffee and they walked over to the studio together.

“Aren’t you going to have to pee if you drink all that coffee now?” Amy said, nodding toward his 20-ounce cup.

“I only pee every 48 hours,” he said. “Anyway, this keeps me awake.”

“I’ve been wondering,” Amy said, ignoring the obvious hydration issue. “How do you stand so still the whole time?”

Jake glanced at her, just a dart of the eyes, assessing. “I make up stories in my head to entertain myself.”

“Stories?” Amy was intrigued. “What kind of stories.”

“Mostly Die Hard fanfiction,” Jake said with a shrug.

Amy couldn’t tell if he was serious, but then they were walking into the studio and Jake peeled off to the changing room. Amy gathered her paints and brushes, and began mixing colors on her palette. When Jake came out 10 minutes later in his plaid robe, he winked at her, and Amy blushed to the tips of her ears.

+++

There were seven people in their class:

Rosa had a good eye but she was impatient, and she gave up on almost all of her pieces before she’d gone above the thighs. Her pad of paper was a series of well-executed but free-floating legs.

Raymond only painted Jake’s butt and his feet. He was very good at both.

Gina said she was an abstract artist and her paintings reminded Amy of tropical forests and secret gardens, which was weird, considering -- well, everything about the class.

Charles was a functional painter but he tended to spend at least half the class time just staring at Jake in a way that wasn’t quite sexual, but made everyone uncomfortable.

Michael’s work was extremely detailed and Amy avoided looking at it.

Amy was the second-best artist (other than Terry), probably because she’d taken a few classes in painting with acrylics in college. She knew her technique was pretty good, but she could never get his eyes exactly right, not the color or the humor or the twinkle that was just him. She had a hard time making an emotional connection – of committing a piece of her own soul to the painting. A part of her craved that kind of exposure and badly wanted to be seen, but she was scared too. And she didn’t know how to move past that hurdle, not in art, and not, if she was honest, in life.

Norm was an incredibly talented artist. His works should be hanging in a gallery. Amy didn’t understand why he was even taking the class.

+++

The classes were every Tuesday night and Saturday morning. In the fifth week, Amy made it all the way back to her apartment after the evening class before she realized she didn’t have her cell phone. She tore through her purse and finally dumped out all the contents, she emptied all of her pockets, and then she remembered: She’d set the phone on the counter beside the paints when she was mixing her colors. It was back at the studio. She checked the time on her microwave. It was after 9. She wasn’t sure when the studio closed, but maybe a janitor would let her in.

She took a cab across Brooklyn and found the lobby door unlocked. She slipped quietly back to the studio, and cracked the door open. It was mostly dark inside, except for a single light in the far corner. Amy stepped inside, and stopped in her tracks.

Jake stood with his back to her, brush in hand, a tall canvas perched on an easel before him. The light shone on the canvas, and she saw that he was painting a figure – a woman with flowing dark hair that fell down her back. She was looking over her shoulder, her face in profile. Her half-smile was teasing, seductive. The woman was nude.

Amy gasped in surprise when she realized she was looking at a painting of herself.

Jake started and dropped his brush at the noise, and turned to face her. “Amy, you’re- what are you doing here?” He moved to stand in front of the canvas, blocking her view.

Amy walked further into the studio. Her heart was stuttering, her pulse racing. “I left my phone,” she said absently. She paused when she was a few feet away, and tilted her head to peer around him. “That’s me.”

Jake swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He nodded. “I- Terry lets me stay after class sometimes, to paint.”

Amy moved around him and he let her, half-stepping to the side. She stood in front of the painting and took it in – the smooth, olive skin of her back, the curves of her hips and the soft globes of her butt. Her legs looked strong, the muscles of her thighs and calves delicate but pronounced. One foot was lifted up on its toes, so it looked as though she was about to face the painter fully, and Amy could almost imagine the swollen breasts that would be revealed. She raised a hand to her neck, feeling exposed in a way that sent shivers up her spine.

“I’m sorry, I-”

“It’s beautiful,” Amy said, breathless.

“You’re beautiful.”

Amy turned to him, and Jake locked eyes with her. He was nervous, she could see it in the furrow of his brow and the creases around his eyes, but she could see the challenge there too, in the flare of his nostrils. Amy closed the space between them, and she could smell the faintest trace of his aftershave. She looked down at his lips, and his tongue darted to one corner, a slick flash of pink.

She reached for him, palm cupping his cheek, and kissed him hard. He startled, then met her with a passion that made her dizzy, lips crushed together, teeth knocking, tongues grappling for purchase. He tasted of sweet cherry candies and coffee. Jake moaned into her mouth and Amy held his face in her both of her hands, scratched her fingers through the hair at his temples. She felt his hands grip her waist, move to her back, move lower to take fistfuls of her ass and squeeze.

They broke apart, panting. Amy smiled and he nipped at her lips.

“I want to paint you,” he said, words whispered into her mouth.

Amy angled her head, dropped kisses along his jaw until she reached his ear, and said, “Now?”

“Right now.”

She bit the lobe of his ear, hard enough to make him groan. She took a wide step back, and without a word, she began to unbutton her blouse. Jake watched in awe for a moment, then placed a hand over hers before she was halfway down. She quirked an eyebrow at him, and he said, “Just a sec,” and jogged to the door and locked it. He came back and stood behind her, shifted her hair away from her neck and kissed the exposed skin there.

“The janitor doesn’t come until morning.” His voice was husky and the sound of it sent a jolt down to her toes. “We have all night.”

+++

Amy understood, as Jake came around to face her again and watched her slip her open blouse off her shoulders, why he always changed into the robe before joining them in the studio. Undressing, this slow reveal, felt like an offering – like she was giving him pieces of herself with each sliver of skin laid bare. Her blouse dropped to the floor and she moved her hands to her sensible work pants, teased at the button and unzipped them, slowly slid them past her hips, over her thighs. He stepped forward and crouched in front of her, and she was confused for just a moment before he lifted one foot and tugged off her boot, then removed the other, her hand on his shoulder to keep her balance. When he’d rolled off her socks too, he moved back and resumed watching. She kicked her pants all the way off, so she was in only her underwear.

Jake met her eyes, and nodded. She reached behind herself to unclasp her bra, a sensible blue cotton piece. She let the back straps dangle before shrugging off the rest of the garment. Next she tucked her fingers under the hem of her panties, in a matching sky blue, and took a deep breath. She slipped those off too, releasing the air in a long sigh.

She stood up straight and squared her shoulders, let her hands hang loosely at her sides. Jake’s eyes traveled over her body as he walked a slow circle around her, taking in everything. The way he moved, the way he watched, reminded her of both a predator and a protector, and Amy felt goosebumps break out along her arms and the back of her neck.

Amy wasn’t shy about her body. Growing up in a house with eight kids and two bathrooms, followed by dorm life and the police academy before she finally was able to live on her own, had driven away almost all self-consciousness. She had never used her body as a means to get what she wanted – that was what her brain was for – but in the bedroom, she enjoyed wielding the power of her physical attributes. She liked that her body was strong and capable, but also soft and sexy.

This, though – standing naked before Jake, him fully clothed, in a familiar but untraditional space – was entirely new. She felt her power thrumming just under the surface of her skin, but she also felt vulnerable in a way that was unexpectedly thrilling. Like she was accessible. Like he could do, or take, anything. Amy bit down hard on her lower lip.

Jake paused just behind her, and she felt his fingers ghosting just over her skin, not quite touching but warm enough to set her aflame. “You are so amazing,” he said, breathing the words against the side of her neck.

He ambled over to his easel then, and Amy had almost forgotten – he was going to paint her. He spent a few minutes at the paint table, picking up various colors and putting them back down, eventually squeezing a few dollops onto his palette and turning back toward her. He had two brushes in his hand, one larger than the other. He tucked the smaller one into the waist of his jeans and walked back to her with the larger one clenched between his teeth. He took it out when he reached her, and held it at the ready in his right hand.

“How do you want me?” Amy said. She wondered if he was going to leave the lights off, with only the one lamp shining on his easel. The rest of the room was cast in blue and black shadows, though there was still enough ambient light that she could see the features of his face, and he could see plenty of her.

“Just like this,” he said. He came up close to her again, the fabric of his plaid shirt brushing up against her bare bicep. “Amy, I want to paint you.”

He stepped back, brush between his fingers, and looked her in the eyes. She frowned for a moment, because yes, obviously yes, she was ready, and then it occurred to her what he was asking. She opened her mouth in an “oh” of surprise, then she pursed her lips together. A thrill of excitement raced up the backs of her legs and her spine. She nodded her permission.

Jake dabbed the tip of the brush in a circle of grassy green paint on his palette. He lifted it toward her, the bristles hovering just over her heart. When the brush touched her skin, Amy gasped and closed her eyes. The bristles were stiff, and pleasantly scratchy against her skin. She felt the brush trace a slow path around the bulb of her right breast and down her ribs. Next the bristles swept across her belly, causing the muscles of her abdomen to spasm and roll. He painted cool stripes along her collarbone, concentric circles around her navel. She felt her breathing quicken, her pulse race in her neck.

Her skin felt cool where the paint was wet but everywhere else was flushed. The heat was pooling between her legs, and when he painted a wide arc along the inside of her left breast, the brush teasingly close to her nipple, she began to ache.

“Jake.” She was pleading.

He shushed her, gently. Placed one chaste kiss to her lips. Amy opened her eyes and found herself staring into the deep brown of his irises, the pupils blown wide from the dark, or something else.

He moved behind her, carefully gathering her hair and lifting it over one shoulder. She imagined her back laid out before him, a blank canvas of skin, and closed her eyes again. He started at her neck, painting thin horizontal lines. He trailed his brush down the long, gentle curve of her spine, bristles bumping over the vertebrae like dots of braille. He painted whirls and zig-zags and lines that could have been letters, and she lost herself in it. Each touch of the bristles was a spark, and each brush of paint lingered like the tails of a shooting star. He worked lower and lower, dipping his brush into the cleft between her ass cheeks, then spending what could have been hours painting abstract designs across her butt.

His brush slid lower, until it slipped stiff and slick under the curve of her bottom, onto her upper thigh, and perilously close to her entrance. Amy inhaled sharply, and the throbbing between her legs suddenly wasn’t just an ache, it was a need – a demand. The brush flicked across to the other thigh and she nearly cried out. She shifted, spread her legs enough to make a point, and his brush skated over the sensitive flesh of the very tops of her inner thighs.

But then he was moving lower again, tracing the lines of her hamstrings and her calves and the ticklish spots behind both knees. It was a relief though, and Amy breathed deeply as the desperate ache began to recede, just a little.

“You look so good like this,” Jake said, voice soft and soothing, as he painted his way up the fronts of her thighs. “You’re a work of art.”

She glanced down at him and rolled her eyes a little, because that was a bit over the top. But then he ran his brush over her hips, and tracked the line just above the triangle of her pubic hair and suddenly the need was back, the heat pulsing. He dabbed his brush into a dusty pink paint on his palette, and his next stroke was the underside of her left breast, across the taut swell of it. He picked up more of the pink on the tip of his brush, and he met her eyes briefly.

When the bristles flicked over her nipple, she moaned. The fibers of the brush were unforgiving as he swept them back and forth across first her left nipple and then her right. He alternated his strokes, painting thick, flat swaths across the whole of an areola, then tapping just the scratchy ends of the bristles to the tips of her nipples.

Each touch of the brush shot straight to her crotch, and Amy’s thighs twitched. She adjusted her stance, desperate for a friction, for a pressure, for anything that would abate the deep ache between her legs. She was keening, sounds beyond her control coming from the back of her throat.

“Please.” She was breathless, heaving. “Jake.”

“Tell me,” he said. He painted lazy circles around each breast. “Tell me what you need.”

Amy bit her lower lip, and Jake slid his brush over the peak of her right nipple, the bristles almost painful she was so sensitive. She thrust out her chest and moaned.

“I need you. Jake-”

His hand slid between her legs and she spread them, everything throbbing, and then she felt the blunt tip of a finger and he was thrusting inside her, deep and so easy. He pulled out and came back with two fingers, then three, curling and hooking them in her.

“Yes, oh Jake-” Amy clutched at him, grabbed at his shirt. When he plunged into her again she sank her teeth into the skin at the crook between his neck and shoulder, and she heard him hiss.

But then he removed his fingers and he pushed her back a half step, and when she looked at him, questioning, he just raised an eyebrow. He lowered himself to his knees, and set his palette and brush aside. He took the second brush from the waist of his pants though – it was smaller than the first, and clean. He moved the brush to his mouth and sucked the bristles between his lips. When he took it out, the bristles shimmered in the low light of the room. Jake reached for her, using a thumb to push aside the folds of flesh, revealing her clit. Amy groaned before the tip of the brush had even made contact. She cried out at the first stroke.

Jake knew what he was doing. He dabbed the bristles over her clit until she was shaking with the pleasure and pain of it, and then he shifted to slow, soothing strokes across the less sensitive folds. He never settled into a particular rhythm, she never knew where to expect him next, and she was practically in tears from the sensory overload. When he thrust his fingers back up inside her she wanted to scream with joy, and she bit the inside of her cheek instead.

He had three in her again, and she wanted more, she wanted so much more, but then his bristles were back on her clit and one, two, four flicks and she was coming undone. Amy screamed into her fist, her other hand clutching at Jake’s hair so hard it had to be painful. Her body went stiff, the muscles in her legs contracting to keep her upright. Her orgasm rolled through her for so long she didn’t think it would ever end, waves cresting and crashing and cresting again.

When at last she came down, Jake suddenly had her in his arms, and she was glad for it because she wasn’t sure she could stand on her own any longer. He held her close and then lowered her, careful, to the floor of the studio, and Amy curled up against his side, head on his chest. She could hear his heart thumping, and feel her own pulse pounding. She felt dizzy and breathless, boneless from the release. She closed her eyes as his hand stroked over the back of her head.

+++

“So is this your thing?” Amy said softly, after lying quietly with him for a while. “You paint all of your ladies like that?”

She felt Jake chuckle under her cheek, and it made her smile. “Yeah, that’s my MO: I cleverly arrange for them to discover me painting a nude portrait then ravage them with a paint brush.”

“Paint ‘em and leave ‘em,” Amy said with a sigh.

He kissed the top of her head. “Exactly.”

Amy trailed her fingers across his chest, marveling that it didn’t feel awkward to be completely naked against his entirely clothed body. In fact, it was nice – she felt taken care of, and also like she was still on display in a very appealing way. One thing she would take from this night: Apparently she was an exhibitionist.

Jake hummed under his breath as she ran her fingers lower, over the soft flesh of his stomach. She paused there, before walking two fingers further south, over the denim of his crotch. She could tell he was erect, and Amy felt a new thrill rush through her – a familiar thrill of power and control. She pressed her palm against his erection, hard enough to make him moan her name. Amy unzipped his jeans and slipped her hand under the waistband of his boxers, and wrapped her fist around him. The skin was hot and he jerked under her fingers.

“So what happens next?” Amy said, squeezing him as she slid her hand up toward the head of his dick. “Is this when I suck you off? Or is my hand good enough?”

“Oh god-” Jake twitched in her hand, and Amy ran the pad of her thumb over the tip. “Whatever you want. Amy, anything.”

Amy pushed herself up on one elbow and stroked him a few times, considered just getting him off like this, while she watched his face. He locked eyes with her for a moment, and his pupils were blown wide with desire. Then he clenched them shut and threw his head back with a groan as she grabbed the base of his dick hard in her fist.

She let go of him and yanked down his boxers, freeing him completely. Then she climbed on top, straddling his waist. She felt his dick jump between her thighs. She placed her palms on his chest and waited for him to come back to her, to understand what she wanted. She thought briefly of asking if he had a condom, but she thought he probably didn’t, and it wouldn’t matter. She was on the pill. She’d take her chances. When he met her gaze again, she took fistfuls of his plaid shirt and yanked it open, buttons popping off and skittering across the hard studio floor.

“That was payback for the hours it’s going to take to get this paint off me,” Amy said, and Jake laughed.

His face grew thoughtful, though, and he reached up with one hand to trace a line of green paint down her ribs. The touch of his finger wasn’t as intense as the brush, but she shivered all the same.

“You look so beautiful like this,” he said. “I know you were joking, but I’ve never painted anyone before.”

“Why me?”

“I don’t know. You looked- I mean, not to go overboard, but you looked like a goddess standing there in front of me. And maybe I wanted to mark you, or maybe I just wanted to be part of all that beauty, just for tonight.”

Amy felt herself blushing and she ducked her head, taking in the swirls and stripes of color across her breasts and her belly, her arms and her thighs. She felt like something cherished and extraordinary. She felt like an ethereal being with unimaginable powers, and also entirely like herself – just Amy Santiago, remarkable for exactly who she was.

Amy reached between her legs for his erection, and she guided him into her. She lowered herself slowly, savoring the penetration, the incomparable feeling of being split open and discovered anew. When he was fully inside she squeezed herself around him and he moaned, hands clutching at her hips. Amy bent forward and slid her palms across his exposed chest, planting her hands over his pecs to lift herself up, only to drive right back down. They both cried out.

She set up a ruthless rhythm, pounding into him hard enough that he couldn’t seem to keep up, though he thrust his hips up to meet her when he could. She scratched her nails down his chest, scraping against his nipples until he was writhing beneath her. It wasn’t long before she could tell he was close – his erection throbbing inside her, his eyes squeezed shut, mouth in a grimace of pleasure. She drove herself onto him and suddenly he was moaning her name, fingers clutching at her hips to hold her in place. Amy touched herself and came apart with him, letting out a long groan as her whole body seemed to clench around him.

She collapsed onto his chest, panting, enjoying the feel of the last pulses of his dick inside her. She sighed when he pulled out and wrapped his arms around her.

“You are amazing,” he said, voice whisper-soft in her ear. “Will you go to dinner with me tomorrow?”

Amy chuckled and told him she’d check her calendar.

+++

At their last class a week later, Terry paused at Amy’s easel and studied her work for a long several minutes. When Amy finally glanced back at him, he had his chin in his hand and was frowning slightly.

“You finally got the eyes, Santiago,” he said.

Amy looked briefly at Jake, who couldn’t have heard what Terry had said but was watching her anyway, the shadow of a smile on his face.

“Thank you,” Amy said.

“But you know this was a class on painting the human form, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Amy said. “I know.”

THE END


End file.
